


Square One

by voidlink



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Character Development, F/M, Gore, Plot, Politics, Psychopath, Violence, insane, virginal young Vladimir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:59:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5772199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidlink/pseuds/voidlink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after having left Noxus, the unclaimed son returns - echoes of blood reverberating throughout his veins. He's returned to take back his life, and carve out a future fit for a king. A prequel to another fic, focused on extending Vladimir's lore and characterizing him further.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Square One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all,
> 
> This is a fic dedicated entirely to Vladimir and his story after his return to Noxus. I found it really interesting that a boy who had been scorned and chased out of his home city came back to become a high-ranking mage and occupy an important political position in the elitist, unforgiving city-state.
> 
> Additionally, the co-author of this story (Augustino Alighieri) is a Vladimir main who fell in love with the Vladimir from Pawns and wanted to help me develop him further as a character and delve deeper into his beautifully disturbed mind.
> 
> Enjoy!

Footsteps shuffled along the dry ground, feet bare and battered. What was pale was covered in dirt, brown caked deeply into the porcelain.

Around the man, people walked at paces both brisker and more sluggish, weighed down by their own individual sins, small and large. A crowded river flowed both ways in and out of the great gates of the city, beckoned and overcast by grand, black towers and battlements. Noxus was a fortress, and the upper echelons of society and the military ensured that people remembered that, for even the dankest slum was designed for the purposes of defending the city in a time of war. Everyone in Noxus carried sin, it was part of the culture, part of survival.

Though hunched over, clad in a great, filthy cloak and loose-fitting clothes, the man was steady in his gait, albeit slow. Despite his trousers and open shirt hanging like sheets off him, it was not their fault. His frame was gangly and unnaturally lean, like sticks and straw tied together with rope.

But he was not weak.

Pale, long-fingered hands clutched at the shoulders of his cloak, pulling it around him, hiding as much of his sickly body from the eyes of the streaming people around him. His ivory hair obscured his eyes and face from the public, only revealing his angular jawline – lined with sparse hair – to those who had the courage to look.

The grand majority however, did not. The collective lack of fortitude in the people around him caused the crowded river to recede, the tide pulling itself away from him. This one, singular man – garbed in garments that would make a street urchin retch and with hair like dead, white grass – was unintentionally cutting out a path for himself, allowing his shuffling steps to go unimpeded. He knew of the power he possessed, and those around him could feel it in their veins and arteries, their essences drawing themselves out of their own bodies, vessels bulging as though magnetized.

The river moved faster as it passed him.

Finally. He thought, as his mind registered the shadow of Noxus's gates on the ground beneath him, and the ground changed from dry dust to pale cobble. It's been four days since I left the Temple. _Four days of trudging…but now…_

He looked up, the sun eclipsed by the great, central cathedral of his city, it's shadow cast over the people below. Somewhere near him, a woman screamed and he heard her frantic footsteps in a bid to distance herself from him, and the gap that he'd caused in the river of migration grew even larger – but he barely cared. He took a single breath in, letting the stench of Noxus fill his lungs with nostalgia.

He had missed this city, missed the frantic climb up the ladder of chaos that consumed its inhabitants.

A climb that he now had the power to ascend.

He took another step forward, but stopped as his foot landed square in a murky puddle. Drawing his foot out disturbed the water, but diluted the murkiness enough for him to see his reflection.

As he looked down through half-closed eyelids and unkempt hair, he saw the face of death stare back up at him. Bloodshot, sunken crimson eyes return his gaze as he scanned his own visage. His pale skin was stretched like canvas over his features. With a fuller face, one would have called his features noble – disclosing his true – if denied – heritage. Instead, he resembled a gaunt lich, bearing flesh that had not seen the fruits of proper nutrition in far longer than should be survivable.

He scowled, stamping his foot through the slosh and continuing on his journey.

Making his way out of the entrance courtyard of the city, he began to trek up one of the many sloping streets, the gentle incline feeling like hell on his weary legs. As he slowly progressed his mind shifted to the past.

_I wonder how mothe-_

Thick fingers suddenly dug into his bicep, followed by its twin hand and a second pair of fleshy talons around his other arm. He grunted and fell, stopped from hitting the ground thanks to the suspension of his attackers. His feet dragged against the stone as he was pulled up the hill, and he lifted his head in a wild attempt to discern what was happening.

Two of the city guard had accosted him, clad in black and red plate, heavy one-handed axes at their hips and spears with brutal heads on their backs. He looked from one to the other, not able to discern their intentions from their shadowed eyes and taut jawlines.

"W…what are you…" He slurred out, his tongue dry.

The guardsmen ignored him, unkind in their method of moving him. The pale-haired man feebly tried to reach down and claw at the cobble beneath him, attempting to get away. His fingernails barely scratched at the stone and he was immediately jerked painfully back upwards.

Why? Why were they doing this? Was it because of his appearance, if so then it was hardly fair. Many in Noxus looked as though they'd just stepped off on of the Church of Kindred's corpse carts.

Though he knew only too well that life was incredibly unfair.

Almost an hour of ascending the increasing slope of the city led the two guards and their prey to the mouth of the central tower. The trio entered and turned right, making their way through a series of corridors before ending in a long, high-ceilinged room lined with guardsmen. The end of the room opened into a wide, railed balcony, and before that was a large, rounded table, dressed in blueprints and plans of war. The table was surrounded by men and women alike, though none of them held nearly as much of a presence as the man at their head.

The pale-haired man could only see the leader from the back, but he could still discern his demeanour.

Noxian armour was bulky by design, meant to intimidate and guard – but this was above and beyond that entirely. The shoulders were gigantic, and if the man's posture was anything to go by they were not overcompensating for size. A short cape hung from them, indicative of high rank without impeding his movements in a battle. Across the cape he wore an axe, strapped to his back – though this weapon could hardly be called a mere axe. The blade was as wide as a guillotine, and glimmered with the mark of being well-used and primed.

"General Darius, sir!" The bedraggled one heard his captor to the right address his superior.

Darius…that name. I know it from somewhere… It was a half-forgotten memory. The kind you have, but know neither why nor where it came from.

The man; Darius, turned. He somehow was even bigger from the front, accentuated by his huge, exposed upper arms between the plated steel of his shoulders and forearms.

"Who's this?" The general asked, his voice like a gravel bass.

"The man you've been searching for; his name was…" The guard paused, evidently not remembering.

Darius grunted and interrupted the guardsman. "Hold his head up." He ordered, the disdain evident in his words.

As the man's face was revealed, Darius stared into it. His eyes scanned over the agape jaw that didn't have the energy to close, the ragged breathing, the gaunt features and the almost deathly bones pushing out. However, it was only when Darius saw the man's blood-shot, blood-red eyes that recognition clicked.

"Vladimir." He cursed lowly, spitting his words out.

The pale one; Vladimir, responded by taking a deep breath of alertment, the air rushing through his throat as though it was a sandpaper flute. His breath remained raspy as he looked Darius in the eye, searching for some semblance of familiarity. He didn't know this man from anywhere.

"You killed two boys many years ago, do you remember?" Something flickered in the red eyes of his prisoner. One of the boys had been the general's nephew, one of many unclaimed by his brother's…escapades, regardless, family was important to Darius.

Darius reached down to his waist and extracted a knife; heavy and large like the man himself. He held it up to Vlad's throat, forcing the man to painfully hold his head up.

"What drove you to do it, what sick, twisted mind lies in that skull?" The general's scowl deepened and he pushed the blade ever so slightly further against Vladimir's neck. A feeble attempt at a response was made from the man at his mercy; but the words died as they passed his tongue. "I should kill you." Darius growled. At his words, Vladimir's eyes opened wide, which the larger man interpreted as a plea for mercy.

"Why should I spare you?"

The only response he got was the look of a madman from behind the crimson iris's, like a beast that had just tasted blood.

Suddenly, the guard to Darius's left let out a choked gurgle, as if something was caught in his throat. The general shot an annoyed look, but his disposition changed to shock when he saw what had happened to his subordinate.

Blood oozed in thick rivulets from every orifice in his face. It poured out of his mouth and coagulated in a thick puddle at his feet, streaming from his nose and eyes like tears. His sockets almost burst with bulging, and then the guard fell to his knees, releasing Vlad's arm as he clutched his throat. A heavy, retching noise filled the room, nauseating almost everyone else in earshot. As he threw up what might have constituted a small bucket, one of his bulging eyeballs fell out, landing sickeningly on the floor. Limb by limb, the man got closer and closer to the floor until what must have been all of his blood pooled around him. His body like rotten fruit, held together solely by his armament.

A quiet yelp of fear was heard from Vladimir's other captor, followed by a scream of pure panic as he released his prisoner, turned, and ran.

Vlad counted two steps before he heard the wet sound of liquid hitting the floor and the sound of the man's tibia and fibula shattering under the weight of the rest of his body. Followed by the gasps of horror let out by the men behind Darius in unison.

To the rest of the room who had been watching, the guard had managed two strides before his left leg had suddenly burst into blood. With nothing to support it, his bones snapped and he fell and skidded along the floor. His screams fell harshest on the ears of the guards down the rooms length, who had raised their spears but showed no signs of going near their fallen comrades.

Through the pain, the soldier screamed and attempted to rise to his feet, but the flesh around his other leg's knee exploded in a similar fashion, resulting in him falling and cracking the patella against the hard stone floor.

His scream muffled the sounds of people vomiting over the railing, but didn't deafen them.

The bloody fireworks display went on for far longer than anyone watching would have wanted. One by one, the man's arms and legs erupted into fountains of blood with the bones beneath cracking and shattering as they fell, unsupported, to the floor. His body blood-soaked and half-limbed, his face a screaming mess of tear-streaked lines.

The rest of the room could only look on in unadulterated terror. Only two individuals were the exception.

One was Darius, the ever-professional general and embodiment of the Noxian spirit. His soul was displeased that his men had failed, even moreso that one of them had tried to run – but that all took a backseat as he watched the scene unfold before him. What unsettled him the most about the entire spectacle is what the other exception had been doing during the second guard's death. He hadn't turned to watch like everyone else in the room, no.

Vlad had placed his hands on the ground and leaned down. He dipped a pair of fingers into the still-deepening pool of blood and lifted the ichor, bringing it up to his face and licking the substance off.

Darius's disgust was immediately replaced by a seething, unrelenting rage.

He reached back, his eyes twitching in his skull with fury. The tranquil anger of the battlefield flooded his senses, the wrath that allowed Darius to be such a monstrous force. All he was was a single man, his axe guided by a hand that wielded strength and precision in equal and terrible measure.

His metal-clad fingers gripped the haft of his axe, his arm tensed. The beast before him wouldn't see it, wouldn't even have time to feel it.

Darius swung. A single, perfect strike that would cleave the monster in his eyes cleanly in two. No survival.

And yet when his hand-held guillotine came down, he did not feel his blade effortlessly slice flesh and bone, but instead felt his arm tremble as he hit the stone floor with an echoing *clang*.

His eyes cleared of rage, and he saw a thick, man-shaped red mist float in the air before him. No Vladimir.

"What."

The mist retreated, moving backward to the pooling corpse of the second guard. It condensed, reforming into the pale man Darius had intended to strike down.

Vladimir breathed loudly, clearer and fuller than earlier. He stood tall and with his shoulders back, his pale upper torso exposed as his ragged top slid down. He was still skinny, but his form was fuller.

The blood vessels in Vladimir's forearms rippled as he lifted his arm, aiming his open hand towards Darius.

Vlad's fingers splayed and Darius suddenly felt his body seize up from within. The general's stance wavered, shaking from the knees up. Nevertheless, the Hand of Noxus would not fall, and through strength of will he retained his position, even beginning to move forward with slow, powerful steps.

The Haemomancer frowned. He knew he should only have limited control over Darius – he hadn't had skin contact like he had with the guardsmen, but still. He pushed his arm forward again, willing the blood in Darius's body to betray their host – but suddenly felt a powerful wave of exhaustion. The sustenance he'd gained from the blood of the guard had given him a small burst of power, but it was waning. He released the general's internals from his grip, planning to conserve what little power he had left into escaping.

As Darius's charge gained speed, Vladimir prepared to de-solidify once more – but a voice from the back of the room halted both of their plans.

"Darius, stop!"

The armoured man halted with poise, his axe low against the ground. Turning viciously to see who had the audacity to get in the way of his revenge, he saw that standing – if a little shaken from the blood mage's display – was the representative of Noxus's magic circle at the table.

"No! He-"

"He killed four Noxians, if I've been listening correctly." A woman said, garbed in green and black robes with metallic trimmings. Her hair was a stark white – though from natural age rather than Vladimir's reason – and her features were kindly, if sharp. "That's a tragic count, but imagine if that power was directed towards our enemies?" The implications hung in the air. It wasn't really a question, and Darius knew it.

She stepped away from the table, making her way towards Vladimir with purposeful strides. Strides that could only come from surviving Noxian politics as long as her age implied. "Come, child. I won't hurt you. Lower your arm."

Vladimir was soothed by her voice, though it wasn't particularly soothing to begin with. He reluctantly did so, pulling his tattered clothing back around him to hide himself.

"Your name is Vladimir, correct?" The woman asked, walking past a stunned Darius as she closed the distance.

"…Y…" Vlad cleared his throat, finding the ability to speak properly for the first time since he'd entered the chamber. "Yes."

"A surname?"

"No…Just Vladimir."

The mage pursed her lips. "I see, no matter." She took him by the arm, guiding him to the doorway. "You're under our protection now, you needn't fear him." Vlad let himself get pulled along, his feet falling into an awkward stumble until he regained his balance and walked a half-step behind her. "We'll take care of everything. Don't worry at all – all you need to do is promise your loyalty."

 _…Loyalty? To Noxus?_ The concept occupied Vlad's thoughts for the time being, filling his mind.

As he and the woman left the room, she paused to turn and regard Darius; the general shaking with anger again.

"Darius dear, do clean up before I get back, will you?"


	2. Preparation

A plume of cool, exhaled breath rose from the lips of their owner, joining the steam that clouded the air. Vladimir leaned his head backwards – his neck tilted over the rim of the tub – before letting his entire body slide slowly into the misty, warm water. After a submerged second he reappeared above the water's surface, breathing slowly in and out as he wiped the water off his soaked forehead, his fingers brushing the edge of his recently shaven scalp.

They'd cleaned him, shaved his face and hair, then scrubbed the dirt from out of his feet. Even without the matted hair covering his jaw, he barely recognized the face that had stared back at him, all shades of red and white.

 Vlad sighed, one of neither anguish nor relief. The water of the bath had remained clear – the surface layered with bubbles – thanks to the magic provided by the Circle of Noxus. His pores had become cleansed, and his dirt-caked body had taken on a sense of complete renewal. He felt relaxed, for the first time in over six years.

He leaned back again, resting his forearms over the edge to hold his torso afloat as he rested. Letting his eyes close, he recalled the last time he'd cleaned himself.

_Out in the rain, the cold droplets washing over me._

The scene further unfolded itself to him, becoming more vivid than the reality beyond his closed eyelids.

 _The wind had been silent; my eyes were closed then too. I could feel it, the life of everything around me; pulsating._ He danced the fingers of his right hand idly against the tub. _The stains of the days' lessons were washed off in the rain, painting the grass and ground a gorgeous crimson. I longed to let it return to me, cast me in the red ichor of other beings._

_My paleness once again exposed to the world, naked, unabashed._

_Towards the other end of the Temple, I could sense master. Years of training, I am one with the river of life._

Vlad suddenly jolted, splashing a bit of water onto the floor. The sound of a voice reverberated throughout the room, but as it trailed off he realized it was coming from within his head. He couldn't discern the words, but the voice was familiar enough that he could tell whose it was.

_Dmitri._

He frowned and put it out of his mind, deciding to leave the tub then.

With pale hands, he pulled himself out, uncaring of the water he spilled over the floor. He quickly dressed himself, and even though the clothes had been tailored for someone of his physical condition they still fitting far too loosely.

 _Nothing to be done about that._ He thought as he moved to admire himself in the mirror again. The outfit was simple, though elaborate in comparison to what he'd worn during his time learning his craft.

A crimson, lengthy jacket with a raised collar, the whole thing given shape and connotation by its sharper edges. Under it he wore a plain white shirt lined with buttons down the front, and a set of dark trousers with black boots to complete the ensemble.

_Noxian colours…or blood?_

He admitted he'd have looked significantly better if he still had his hair, but the state his locks had been in were nothing short of heretical and needed to be cut. Running his hand over his featureless scalp one more time, he turned and walked towards the exit, where Delia was waiting for him.

"Vladimir, " She exclaimed with reservation as he entered the next room. He looked around in what appeared to be shyness, but was closer to trepidation. "How do you feel; much better I take?"

He didn't answer. Instead she settled for taking him by the shoulder and guiding him to the other person in the room; a man he'd only just set eyes on.

As Vlad approached him, the man took a low bow; left arm extended out from the body and right curled beneath his chest, his opposing leg sweeping back onto its toes. Formality was something the blood mage hadn't experienced since he'd left he city, and as a consequence he was unsure as to whether he should reciprocate the action or if there was another way he was meant to react.

"My name is Bucephalus Alastor, but you may of course refer to me however you wish." He said as he rose, a zest of pride but also humility in his voice. "It is the will of Madam Delia that I serve you, for the sake of you and the mages of Noxus. It is an honour to call you Master, Sir Vladimir."

Alastor was well-dressed, definitely in the mages' pocket – a deep one at that. A tailed black waistcoat over a red shirt and grey pants made up the core of his dress. His left shoulder was metallically covered, though it appeared to be an ornament rather than compensation for some physical disability. On that note, Vlad noticed that his right leg was encased in a leather brace – but he couldn't tell if it was an injury because of the way Alastor held himself; like a noble, but with the modesty of someone who was aware they were lesser.

He also wore spurs, oddly.

_What…is going on?_

Vlad was somewhat overwhelmed. Hours ago he'd entered the city with nothing to his name or pockets, and now he'd been given a wash, clothes and even someone who called him master. Almost all his life he'd been subservient to the will of others, whether it had been his mother who had thrown him out, Dmitri, or just the cruelty of fate. This was new. But still…

 _Noxus hasn't changed at all. Power is still the currency of the people._ He felt his blood pulsate a single time. A bestial show of his power in a place where he had otherwise no right to use it had not only led to his survival; it appeared to be making him thrive.

_Which is why you cannot trust him, Vladimir. Whatever agenda the Circle of Mages have; I will not allow them to use you._

_Dmitri!_ Vlad's face scrunched up in concentration as he pushed Dmitri out of his head, earning odd looks from Alastor and Delia.

Recomposing himself, he extended a hand out to the man. Alastor reached out to receive it, shaking it at Vlad's pace. The moment their skin made contact, Vladimir's will seeped into Alastor's blood vessels – ready to assume control and exercise their craft from within the chamberlains body. Oh, how he would rejoice in shedding the blood of this insignificant man, in piercing yet another sack of blood and organs. Yet he recognized his allies and would be merciful for as long as they acted as such.

If he was indeed a tool for the mages against Vlad, he'd been poorly fore-armed.

"It's…nice to meet you, Alastor."

"Likewise, sir. I am here for your every need to be accommodated to the best of my ability." Vladimir had trouble looking the man in his eyes. If Alastor was hiding something, he hid it well behind his kindly, middle-aged visage.

It was Delia's turn to speak. "Bucephalus has been assigned to serve as your butler as you readjust to the city. He will manage your finances, your appointments and meetings, and anything you may desire from him."

 _My…finances?_ "I don't have anything to finance." Vladimir immediately commented.

Delia merely smiled. "Courtesy of the Circle." She clapped her hands together. "Now, business – Bucephalus will have plenty of time to bring you to relevance on whatever topic later." Delia sat down, and motioned for Vladimir to do so. As he took his place in a luxurious armchair, Alastor took his place standing at Vlad's side. That was something Vlad would need to get used to.

"That magic you used in front of General Darius has me and the majority of the circle very intrigued." She let out a little chuckle. "A truly impressive display, if I may say. We haven't seen blood magic in Noxus for centuries, let alone with such…proficiency."

Vladimir simply looked at her, motionless beyond the blinking of his eyes and clockwork rising of his breath.

"Tell me Vladimir, where did you come across it? The Circle considered it a lost art."

 _Then the Circle is more foolish than I thought._ "My master, a man in the mountains…Dmitri."

Dmitri's voice returned, indecipherable this time. Vlad pushed it out of his mind, willing it away.

"Is he…?"

"Dead."

Delia seemed displeased with that answer. "I see. Can you direct us to the Temple?"

_They'll find nothing there. The value of the Temple was in its craft, in the blood._

_Send them there._ Dmitri's returned voice was a dirty cackle.

"Three days by foot to the Northwest, find a village at the foot of the mountain ridge that has a road leading to the Howling Marsh. Ascend the mountain and follow the ridge East for a day, you should find the Temple."

Delia looked satisfied, overly so. "Thank you, Vladimir." She placed a couple of fingers to her forehead, resting her arm against her chair and leaning into it. If she was using some sort of long-range communication magic to relay what she'd discovered to the other members of the Circle, Vlad couldn't tell – at least not without having directly touched her. It wasn't his field of magic.

He wanted to ask if there was anything else she wanted, but felt it wasn't his place to ask.

"That is all, for now at least. Expect a meeting with the rest of the Circle in a few days' time. Bucephelus will take care of it. For now, it's time you headed home."

_She must mean more Circle-provided favours._

Vladimir rose and curtly nodded his head towards Delia, figuring he'd follow Alastor at this point. He allowed his butler to lead him out of the building, ending up on a sloped street in the lower half of the city. The building they were in looked plainer from the outside, Vlad checked. Waiting for them were a pair of horse-drawn carriages. One emblazoned in green and gold, the other black and red.

He heard the reins snap from inside the carriage and felt the world move beneath the wheels behind the trotting of the horses. His posture in his seat was withdrawn, but he regarded the outside world with interest. Noxus's streets went past him like film reel as day turned to night, the gradual change from poverty at the lower end the city into the wealthier parts of the upper city coinciding with their gradient ascent.

The world of Noxus's upper echelon was something he had known, once upon a time ago. He'd been disinherited, but now he'd returned.

This was punctuated as the carriage stopped in what looked like a courtyard, away from the streets. Through his blood, Vlad felt his butler descend from his seat and open the carriage door for him.

"Master." Alastor curtly addressed Vladimir.

The mage wordlessly exited the vehicle, stepping onto the cobbled gruond and looking forward, his eyes widening as he took in what was in front of him. Alastor shut the door behind his master and moved to return to his post atop the driver's seat.

"Allow me to stow the carriage, sir, I'll return shortly."

Alastor…" Vlad turned to address his servant, gesturing with his hand towards the large, multi-storied mansion before him. "…whose home is this?"

"Yours of course, sir."

Vlad was stunned. He'd assumed that when Delia had told him about his new home she'd meant some sort of apartment rented out by the Circle. Not a whole house, certainly not a mansion in the higher reaches of the city's geography.

He started taking dazed steps towards the front door, opening the gate to the compound and walking slowly in. When he reached the main door, he slid his hand over the carved wood. It was flawlessly smooth, his ivory fingers rising and falling in unison with the elegant carvings.

Suddenly the door fell back beneath his hand, even though he hadn't pushed at all. Standing on the other side was Alastor, smiling warmly. "Come in, sir."

Vladimir was taken slightly aback, but entered nonetheless. His eyes drifted around the entrance hall; from the high ceiling to the spacious perimeter of the walls. Alastor awaited his masters wishes patiently.

The mage slowly turned on the axis of his heel, admiring the entrance room. As extravagance went, it wasn't anything of particular note – but it was more than Vlad had ever possessed in his life; and it was all his. He took it all in, drinking it through his external senses. The smell of the interior, the way the light was cast – the contrast of the outside worlds nightly gloom and the well-lit inside of his world, the feeling of the floorboards beneath him.

He couldn't really comprehend it. Several hours ago he'd been in danger of losing his life, the ire of one of Noxus's most powerful generals weighing down on him, and now…here he was.

"Alastor. How was this prepared so readily?"

"Well, the Circle generally has a house available for each particular branch of magic, as well as at least some form of lodging spare in case they need to suddenly take on new members. In this case, it was both." Alastor paused sweeping his arm modestly around the room. "This house in particular is famous for housing one particular blood mage, I'm told – one whose reputation is positive or negative depends on how you see him."

Vladimir gave a quizzical look to the chamberlain.

"Back in the time when Noxus was ruled by Kings and Queens, one Queen had a child of ill blood, he suffered from a condition that would prevent his blood from clotting."

"Haemophillia." Vladimir defined.

Alastor was slightly surprised by his wards knowledge, but continued. "A blood mage came to the city and offered his services to the Queen in treating her son. It's said that he and the Queen were secret lovers, though..." Alastor seemed slightly embarrassed. "…his name escapes me."

"Grigori." Vladimir paused for a little bit, wondering if his servant would keep talking. "That rumour is true. He's not highly considered amongst blood mages however."

When Alastor made a noise of interest, Vladimir indulged him. 

"Blood magic is an art, and the primary focus of blood mages should be in seeking to improve their craft." Dmitri's voice almost ran parallel to Vlad's in his mind as the pale-skinned man recited the tenants of his master, word for word. "Of course, secondary interests may exist, but Grigori did painfully little to further our art nor our social standing, only his own."

"I see, sir."

A sudden wave of fatigue fell over the haemomancer. He raised a hand to his face, rubbing his crimson eyes. It had been a long day, and the events were now catching up with his body.

"Sir?"

Vlad sighed to himself. "Alastor, could you…show me to the bedroom?"

"Of course sir, this way." Maintaining a respectful distance ahead of his master, Alastor guided him up the stairs and through the landing, showing him to the room at the end of the hallway.

"I will be ready for you when you wake sir. Is there anything you in particular might want for breakfast?" Alastor offered kindly.

Vladimir didn't put any thought to it, solely focused on the act of stripping off and falling into bed.

"Very well. Sleep well, sir." Alastor shut the door behind his master and retreated, making his way to his own quarters on the ground floor.

The sun rose over the next day, bathing one half of the hill-shaped Noxus in light and the other in shadow. The skull that served as the city's crown and visage facing away from the rays. As a result, it served as a fearsome silhouette to those approaching from the West.

At around midday, Vladimir asked Alastor to use some of his finances to requisition something that would both fill his time and be a productive endeavour for him.

"…Books, sir?"

"Yes, Alastor. I want all the books we can buy. Magic, biology, medicine, disease. Can you do that?" Vladimir's tone was unsettling to the chamberlain. He hadn't yet figured out the art of making demands without sounding threatening.

"Of course, sir. I will fulfil this desire as quickly as possible."

The next day, the first set of Vladimir's request had arrived at the house, with the rest promised by the courier to be delivered over the next three days. He spent those days reading. Noxus's ability in medical and magical fields had improved, he noted. There was much that Noxus could offer to improve Vladimir's craft, as well as learn from the art of haemomancy.

On the fourth day after the shipment was entirely complete, Alastor was about to relieve the courier of his duties when the boy pulled an envelope from his clothes and gave it to Alastor.

"Master Vladimir?" Alastor called out as he approached the library, where he was sure his master was.

Vlad didn't look up from the tome he was studying as he hummed acknowledgement.

"This came for you." He offered the green-and-black envelope, bowing as he did so. Vladimir looked it over and opened it with his fingernail.

"The mages?" Vlad asked as he pulled the letter out.

"It would seem so, sir." Alastor replied as he stood back up. "They're ready for us."

Vladimir's eyes scanned the parchment.

_**Dear Vladimir,** _

_**We of the Circle of Noxus's Mages are pleased to inform you that our meeting has been scheduled for tomorrow at 1100 hours. Amongst those present will include you, myself and a host of Noxus's higher ensemble of mages; including Grand General Swain.** _

… _Swain? Not Darkwill?_ The name was unfamiliar to Vlad, as well as to the memory banks of the haemomancers before him. He turned to ask Alastor.

"Ah, Grand General Swain." A glint of patriotic pride shone in the middle-aged man's kindly eyes. "There's much to tell about him, and much that the public sector is not privy to. What I can tell you as a former subordinate of the Circle is that Swain is nothing short of a strategic and tactical genius, making a meteoric rise through the ranks. Rumour has it that his superiors would promote him minutes before a battle for the sake of being under _his_ command." Alastor took a short breath. "Not only that, but it's said that when he defeated the former Grand General Boram Darkwill's son; Keiran, he obliterated the poor boy with formidable magic, unique magic."

Vladimir processed the information, unsure what to do with it. "Alastor, what do you mean _former_ subordinate of the Circle?"

"Well, I serve you now, of course."

A sense of warmth grew in Vladimir's chest, but the teachings of his master told him not to get sentimental and stay untrusting of the butler. Regardless, he kept reading.

_**We invite you to the same chamber you were bought to at General Darius's behest, but we promise it will be sanctuary instead of a trial court.** _

_**If you have any questions about your current state of living, I will be happy to accommodate them to the best of my ability post-meeting.** _

_**Your Ally,** _

_**Delia Fortner of the Circle of Mages, 2** _ _**nd** _ _**Tier.** _

_**P.S. General Darius will be there as an accompaniment to the Grand General, please do not try to antagonize him and we promise he will not attempt to bisect you again.** _

Vladimir read it a second time over before handing it back to Alastor. "You'll make sure everything will be accounted for tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course, sir."

"Good. That's all I need." He returned to his book, delving back into Noxus's ancient and contemporary history of disease and plague.

Vladimir found himself in the next day, wearing the same blood-red long jacket he had when he'd last seen Delia. Under it he wore black pinstriped pants and a deep crimson shirt, a fluffy cravat at the neck. He admired himself for another second – his hair finally beginning to slowly grow back in and his body looking marginally less bedraggled as it had when he'd entered the city – before exiting his room and walking down the stairs.

"Are you ready, master?"

Vladimir nodded, giving Alastor the notification he needed in order to go out and ready the carriage.

Twenty minutes later they'd found themselves atop of the skull-faced head of Noxus, the scenery unpleasantly familiar to the blood mage. They made their way in and through the corridors, ending up at the large balconied room Vlad knew of.

Vlad felt the various presences of the room react to his entrance. He felt the blood flow of the guards' tense in fear as they remembered what Vladimir had done to their comrades' days' earlier. The ones sitting at the table were made up of a several robed individuals, most of the faces belonging to individuals of advanced age – though he noticed some were quite young. Towards the far end of the table to the left he recognized Delia, who smiled at him as he approached. Their blood collectively seemed to stiffen in preparation for business. At the far end of the table however, were two unique reactions.

One belonged to Darius, who's blood promptly began to boil in anger. Vlad felt the general's internal network churn, which caused him to have to stop himself from smiling. The other belonged to someone Vladimir had never seen before.

He wore robes like the others, but unlike them his had grand metal pauldrons adorning his shoulder, with what resembled a chestpiece on his front. His attire was composed of green and gold, and the lower half of his face was covered – leaving only his intense, furrowed eyes and tri-striped scalp visible. Vladimir felt something deeply unsettling about him. His blood was completely calm, almost deathly slow. Swain was more than human – and unlike the rest of the group – someone that Vladimir felt could rival the art of blood magic.

The great pitch-black raven perched atop his shoulder squawked once at Vlad, making the blood mage notice that beyond its unnatural shape and colouration, it possessed six eyes.

"Grand General." Alastor bowed beside Vlad, his eyes indicating for him to do the same. Vladimir followed suit, trying to mitigate Swain's attention. When he rose, he found the Grand General boring his eyes into Vladimir's own, and he struggled to maintain eye contact. He was gratefully relieved of doing so a moment later, when Swain turned to address Delia.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, Grand General." Delia replied, either used to his presence or hiding her discomfort well.

"Good. Then let's see what this blood mage can show us."

A silence fell over the room as Vladimir took the spotlight, all eyes on him. He willed the blood within his body to pulsate, calming his nerves. The confidence of a more experienced haemomancer took over, and a smirk grew on his face.

"As you wish, Grand General."


	3. Sins of the Firstborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gets a bit disturbing here.

"We have a few questions for you, and we expect you to answer them, Vladimir."

The haemomancer didn't say anything, but gave a half-nod in compliance.

The series of questions were dull in Vladimir's eyes. Mostly directed about the limits and parameters of his power and naturally every other one was punctuated by some variation on "do you promise to use these powers for the good of Noxus?".

He didn't lie through any of his answers, though a good deal of them were half-truths – giving away the secrets of haemomancy wouldn't do well at all.

Three things stuck out in particular however. The first was when Delia told him that the research team of mages they'd sent to the Temple had uncovered nothing, Vlad responded by telling her that the secrets of the Temple would only react to blood magic, and that he requested some of the red lichen growing around the area would be harvested for him. Delia complied.

The second thing of note was the Grand General. Swain didn't speak once throughout the entire meeting, staying completely silent with both he and his ravens gaze unmovingly transfixed upon the pale man. Even in quietness, he commanded the room. Swain was more than just an observer, but Vlad couldn't discern what his intent truly was.

The third thing of interest was when one member – a fat, white-maned man in elegant finery whose blood flow didn't match up with what Vlad saw – asked him about the potential in blood magic for resurrection.

"Resurrection? In what sense?"

The man waved a hand airily, though it seemed unnatural for his body to do so. "Noxus and Zaun frequently work together in order to prolong the lives of those who should have fallen long ago. However, we have yet to find a way to raise flesh that has since ceased. We need a new icon for Noxus to rally behind, and unfortunately the perfect candidate rests in his tomb. Is there any way blood magic might be able to…circumvent our problem?"

Vlad pondered for a second. "It's a simple task to turn a corpse into a puppet, provided that fresh blood flows through their vessels at the time of raising. Slightly more complex is giving an individual cognitive function, and they'd still be linked to their master."

"What about complete autonomy?"

Vlad closed his eyes for a moment and searched the archives of knowledge accumulated by blood mages before him. "…Yes, there is a way. But it's difficult and risky. We would need blood, both powerful and linked to the revenants past. We would also need other blood, a sufficient amount to fuel the creature's independence. Naturally, I would need to conduct the ritual. Should it fail, at best the corpse will return to stasis, and at worst we would have a violent, unkillable warrior – depending on the revenant's actions in life, of course."

"But it's possible?"

"Yes, it is."

The man looked pleased and exhibited a cat-like grin, which looked tremendously unsettling on his circular, multi-chinned face. For a split second, he turned his eye to look at the Grand General, as if there was something between them unspoken.

A few more questions were posed to Vlad, and then the meeting ended. As people filed out of the hall, he couldn't help but notice the fat man talking quietly with Swain at the back of the room, and how even though her master's eyes had shifted focus, the raven atop Swain's shoulder still stared at Vlad, even as he walked away.

* * *

Several weeks had passed since the meeting.

Since then, Vladimir had spent most of his days buried in his library, foregoing and minimizing time with the outside world. Alastor wouldn't see him all the time either. For after the first week after the meeting, his ward would disappear from the premises entirely without warning, only to be found hours later. He later noted that these disappearances would typically occur in the evenings, though they had no specific times fixed to them. Sometimes he'd be back just after sunset, sometimes he wouldn't return until the moon had begun its descent.

The butler did not go out of his way to follow the boy, but he could make an educated guess with regards to his evening disappearances. He could tell Vlad was enraptured by the glamour of the capital and he could feel a hint of vanity in his demeanour, but there was a certain secrecy and shame when he tried to address it.

Alastor tried his best to befriend the lad, and even took him riding once. He noticed then how all the months of digging through medicine textbooks had aided his ward in magically rejuvenating himself from the sickly, terrifying state he was in when he arrived. As he helped him balance on the saddle, he was impressed by the newfound strength of the boy, by the way his form was now lean rather than sickly. They both legitimately enjoyed the lesson, even shared a laugh on the way back. Noticing an opportunity to influence his ward, to help him integrate in society after six years under the influence of a deranged misanthrope, Alastor stopped him at the threshold of his mansion.

"Master Vladimir," he started." the way you've changed in the past months has been more than impressive. When I saw you for the first time, looking barely sane or alive, I would never have believed that you would turn into the young man who stands before me now."

"Thank you, Alastor," his ward smiled and leaned towards him in curiosity. The butler was not the one to give long speeches. Most of the time he would stand silent, ask questions and take numerous mental notes. But the mage could feel a change was about to happen.

"Your impressive transformation has convinced me of the grand path that lies ahead of you. But there is still so much work you need to do to achieve the greatness and power you are destined for, which was no doubt the ultimate aim of your return to Noxus. I myself am a proud Noxian, and my family has thrived under the shadow of the Circle for many centuries, and as such I can tell you that while the present Noxus parades with raw power, be it magical or not, it is not enough. No matter how magnificent your art is, you are but a single man in the heart of an empire built on strife and warfare. You will not forge a great destiny if you stay buried in your library all day and night - you need to seek out your allies, sir. Banquets, balls, hunts and raids - this is where history is made. If you stay in your mansion, leaving only to observe the city and daydream of its grandeur, you will be nothing more than a puppet for the Circle and whoever wants to buy your services, a tool which will sink into obscurity as soon as it becomes redundant."

_I know_ , was Vladimir's initial reaction, and he was not sure if he had spoken the reply or not. For a moment he lost control of his reactions, feeling how Alastor had nailed the simple truth of his self-imposed isolation, which he interrupted only when he left to watch the Noxian nobility in their easy, yet extremely complicated lives.

He somehow managed to communicate so much without saying anything. In the seconds it took him to shake of the surprise at his butler's speech, Alastor inferred enough of what he needed to know, his piercing gaze suddenly felt soft and kindly again.

"Thank you, Alastor," stammered the before rushing to his quarters. "I will think about what you said."

Vlad wore a grey-brown hooded cloak when had he left his mansion, hiding his unnatural white hair and red eyes from the gaze of curious passers by. He tossed the garment aside when he came back from one of his evening walks, his eyes still resting from the lights of the outdoor ball he had observed from a distance.

As he passed through the guestroom he jumped, started by the presence of the unknown woman sat in an armchair, looking through his handwritten medicine notes.

"Good evening, sir." Said the girl.

"Good evening." The puzzled young man replied, getting ready to berate his butler for letting strangers in the house.

"Oh, Mr. Bucephalus left." She said. "But he invited me over…he said you would be interested in talking to me."

"Who are you?" Spat the mage.

"You can call me Lily. And you're Vladimir, from what I he told me. Handsome name. It means 'who rules the world', but you probably know that."

Did she not have a surname, a disinherited child like him, or a bastard? "Is that your real name…?" He asked, hopeful that he'd found a kindred spirit.

"No, it's not my real name, silly."

_Oh, she's a whore._ A voice at the back of Vlad's mind said with disdain. Dmitri, contemptuous as always.

Dmitri hated humanity, but not as much as he hated women, as they were the conduits of humanity's procreation. The amount of punishment the novice had earned for showing interest towards the opposite gender was abysmal. Once they had a female captive, an extraordinarily beautiful one. Dmitri noticed his apprentice's interest towards her and had struck her down with cruelty the likes of which the boy had not seen, even from him. When the cold corpse retained its beauty and Vlad had sneaked out at night to marvel at it, the master haemomancer had noticed and followed his apprentice, only to make the dead woman explode before the boy's terrified eyes.

_The Crimson Reaper has no time for debauchery_ , the old man would say.

_The Crimson Reaper. That was Dmitri's pet name for Vladimir, a reference to his protege's occasional bouts of extreme violence._

But Dmitri was dead, and all that was left from him was an irritating voice at the back of the youth's mind. A voice that took significant energy and willpower to banish, rendering him speechless in the face of the stunning woman in his room.

She was of medium height, blonde, as youthful and succulent as a ripe fruit begging to be picked and tasted. Her outfit was not too revealing and left much to his fantasy, but nevertheless he could tell her body was at least as stunning as her face.

In the end, her gentle curiosity and sweet words managed to force replies out of him. Dmitri gave up and retreated, warning his successor that this would end badly.

"So… you are an escort, then?"  
"I am. Although I cannot believe someone like you would be in need of my services." She giggled.

A sting of paranoia caused his interest to recede.

"I'm being honest. You're quite handsome, as far as lads go."

He had been trying, he had honestly been trying to look like the marquises and counts that would occasionally cross his way in Noxus. He'd stay clean shaven and grow his hair, but the evidence of his mutation (which had been the reason for his disinheritance) would stare him in the face every time he looked at the mirror.

"Do my red eyes not seem unnatural to you? Is my white hair not like that of an old man?"

But Lily laughed at his insecurities, a laugh which seemed honest above all, as if she had seen boys worry about nonsense many times before.

When seconds later she reached out and ran a hand along his cheek, the sensation causing the hairs on his neck to stand on end, she said:

"I had to touch you, to make sure you are not a marble sculpture."

But her touch did not end there and her small hand beckoned his gaunt cheek lower, towards her face. Vlad followed her lead, until her lips touched his.

"Lock your lips with mine." She said.

It was surprisingly easy once she got him going. The motions he had to repeat were simple and immensely pleasurable, and Lily was sweet and passionate and seemed to enjoy his clumsy, inadequate touch. She undressed and pushed him back on the armchair, letting him observe her for a moment. _The wonders of nature_ , the young mage thought.

He knew the biology of it all too well, but the emotional, human side was entirely new to him and he absorbed every detail.

She gasped when she revealed his flawless pale flesh. He was still thin, but in a boyish, rather than in a skeletal way. His eyes closed as he enjoyed her kisses and caressed and shot wide open when she took him in her mouth. She responded to his startled gaze with a small smile, but did not read the immense kick of power he got from a woman kneeling before him, degrading herself to please him.

Vladimir lost his virginity that night, and every second left him wanting more. Lily rode him at first, her motions resembling a sensual, primal dance, and then let him take control and finish.  
He made her promise she would return as he sent her through the door.

Alastor, who had obviously been the one to arrange the entire event, did not betray even for a second that he was behind this. Vladimir figured it out instantly and did not speak to him about it, but his subtle gratitude remained to strengthen the bond between the two men. They would speak more often, with the lad often asking for advice on how to behave or carry himself. The middle-aged man was happy to help.

Vladimir visited Lily again and again, failing to get enough of her each time. Soon the basic acts got boring for him and he started pursuing other goals. He had her teach him everything about her, everything she knew about women and how to please and seduce them.

"Most of all you have to keep your eyes and ears open," she would say." Study your lady carefully. I have been with plenty of women and when it comes to love, no two are alike."

Even that was not enough for the Haemomancer. He had to experiment, to see what his powers could do to the opposite sex. Lily was mostly unsuspecting when it came to the nature of his craft.

"Why do you read all this medicine? Are you a healer?"  
The corners of his lips stirred.

"No."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me. I imagine Noxus has a use for you, whatever it may be."

She was not stupid, and not a bad person. But to him it was all the same. Once the gentle enchantments got boring, Vlad was filled with a sort of sadistic complacency, as if he owned the girl. He started pushing her boundaries, violating her defenseless body through both dark sorcery and the strength of his newly acquired muscles.

Until one day, high on adrenaline and irritated at her resistance, he murdered her.

It was a careless, thoughtless act, yet the crimson bloom that surged forth intoxicated him beyond belief, and lead to him experiencing a mindblowing, almost painfully good climax.

They were not at his mansion, so he commanded the blood that spilled from the open wound on her neck towards him, and absorbed every single drop before donning his large hooded coat and rushing off, confused, into the night.

The reality of what had happened only struck him when he passed the threshold of his mansion. Feeling the approaching storm and trying his best to avoid Alastor, the mage morphed into a crimson mist and sneaked into the attic through the space beneath the door. Once there, he solidified and retreated into the shadows, surrendering to the voices in his disturbed mind.

There was Dmitri, of course. Vlad was surrounded by complete darkness, but could see his red-eyed master in the corner of his eye. He had white hair and the long, matted beard of a hermit, and wore the same set of rags he called a robe as when his apprentice had slain him.

" _Did I not warn you? You don't belong here, boy, my Crimson Reaper."_ Disgust lined Dmitri's temper like poisoned veal.

Vlad hadn't meant to kill her. On a conscious level he was terrified at how easily he had lost control over his murderous impulses, and how sweet and sensual bloodshed had felt after all this time. It had made him doubt his sanity and the control he had over himself.

" _But it is in your nature, same as the white hair and red eyes you were born with."_

Truth is, he was never meant to fit in with society, even a society as fierce and unforgiving as that of Noxus, as the law of the state was as important as the eternal power struggle that sustained it. A good Noxian could balance his race towards the top with whatever sin he carried in his blood. Vladimir was not a good Noxian, and not a legal Noxian, having been born to incest. Everyone could see that in the recessive mutation he had inherited, and in the madness which crept through him and threatened to destroy his life.

And it had managed to do so, once before.

" _So why did you return to Noxus in the end, boy? Why did you not stay to finish my life's work? Further our noble art?"_

"I wanted more than your smelly province, Dmitri," He replied to the shadow, voice weak and doubtful. "I wanted Noxus, I wanted the seat of power and the spotlight of history."

And his master laughed at him, as he had laughed the previous times Vladimir had confessed his desire to return to his homeland and rule.

" _How are you going to achieve that? By murdering everyone who steps in your bedroom? You can barely control your own head and hands, let alone a country."_

The youth buried his fingers in his hair, almost pulling strands out. A sickening wave of self-loathing washed through him, nailing him to the dusty floor and the cobweb-covered wall.

He leaned back, trying to comprehend how deeply and powerfully he'd messed up.

"She was not some street hooker," He whispered to himself." Lily was exquisite and expensive. And she was not a bad girl. She was not a stupid whore."

And yet when his mind's eye saw her naked body, ample chest drenched in blood, crystal blue eyes frozen in eternal terror, the frenzy returned, only fuelled by his hatred. Dmitri retreated, dissolving into guilt and paranoia, and the boy's hands moved almost against his will. He came into his own handfuls, not caring to get up and wipe the stains, but instead froze in the darkness, weighted down by immeasurable self-contempt.

Alastor found him, eventually. His kindly disposition did not even shiver when he was met by his ward's guilty, bloodshot eyes.

"Are you alright, sir?" He asked. "Do you need anything?"

"No," Groaned the young man, "I want to die, Alastor."

"Afraid I can't allow that, sir."

The butler pulled him to his feet and lead him to the living room, trying carefully to clean the dust and cobwebs off his master and offer him a fresh set of clothing rather than the curtain he had wrapped around himself.

He had brewed him a pot of chamomile tea, hoping to calm him down, when Vlad finally spoke again:  
"I killed her."

"I know."

The mage looked at him from underneath his eyebrows.

"So what now then?"

"Not much, sire. The moment we accepted you in this mansion we knew that you are a danger to yourself and others."

"Did Lily know?"

"I am unsure of that, my lord. I can say with certainty that in her trade – especially as sought-after as she would have been – she would have had to be prepared for risks like this."

The mage buried his face in his hands again, and spoke from the relative safety he felt hiding his expression:

"You arranged this then, knowing full well that she was going to die?"

"I have seen worse from the weapons that Noxus has called people before you."

"Alastor…" Vlad waited a bit to manage to arrange his thoughts, to express the confusion he was feeling into words." When you told me I needed to integrate into society, I thought you believed I had a chance. I can't do it, not in this condition."

His butler handed his entire breakdown calmly and professionally, as if he had seen this before.  
"You are very naive to believe you are the worst we have dealt with, master Vladimir. We always find solutions, even for the most insane and unruly of our disciples."

"How does the Circle plan to solve me then?"

"If it was up to the Circle, they would do nothing and let you rampage to your heart's content. A powerful blood mage is worth more than fifty dead escorts. But I legitimately care about you, sire. I see great potential in you, both magical and political, and further I know sitting in your room and accepting the occasional sacrificial lamb is not what you desire."

Vladimir lifted his face from his palms and looked at the butler, unbelieving.

"Master Jericho Swain and I have been discussing an option that might just prove what you need. But you will have to work hard towards it. It is a powerful new institution, and it requires a unique skillset from its… champions."

Him, a champion? He found the thought hilarious.

"You have to be both a virtuoso in your art - which, judging by your performance in front of General Darius - you already are, but also a great entertainer. You'll have to be interesting, sir, equal amounts of humorous and curious." Alastor paused. "But what it might provide _you_ with, is an outlet for your bloodlust. From what the Grand General told me, you may kill and kill without consequence."

"What is this… thing, then?"

"Swain would like you to join the League of Legends."

 


	4. Kin and Kisses

In theory, the League was an arena where city-states and rich individuals settled their disputes without engaging in the overly destructive warfare of the past. In practice, it was a freakshow, a zoo, training grounds, a mages guild, a show, a comedy, a club for nobles and royals to prance around and impress their followers, all of these things together, blurred and interwoven.

Vlad’s place was somewhere between the mages guild and the freakshow. He expected his entry to be without many formalities, but the moment a representative saw him, a long list of desired improvements was produced.

“It is good that he is a red-eyed albino, we’ve not had anyone like that yet,” the official had said.”But he needs his own style, a stage persona if you will, and an outfit to match.”

Is this necessary, the blood mage thought later, when the metallic claws extending from his fingers made his gestures awkward and hard to balance. Truth be told, he enjoyed looking fancy. As he stared at the flamboyant, predatory man in the long red coat in the mirror, he found himself admiring what he saw. He could see himself becoming this man, and he could feel the visage resonating with the power fantasies he had had as a teenager and even as a child.

For this reason he found it extremely easy to get into character from his first game onwards. He appeared at the starting point of the arena, informed about the strategy, but largely inexperienced. As one of his teammates, a large, aging sailor saw him, measured him from head to toe with his cunning eyes, and landing his large hand on his shoulder, barked:

“We got a new lad here, mateys! We’re all friends here, boy, nothing to be afeared of!”

Terribly excited and entertained by the man’s accent, Vladimir donned the mask of the cheerful, bloodthirsty clown-count and fired pun after pun at the invisible audience. Puns were easy and failing at them meant great success, and people seemed entertained. He laughed maniacally in his mildly forced but awkwardly charming way while dirtying his hands with the blood of no fewer than ten people (loosely speaking). His art was flashy and stylishly gruesome, matching the colors of his outfit.

The audience loved him.

 

…

 

“How was it, master? I watched you from the Institute, you were magnificently fierce.”

“Wonderful, Alastor. Thank you so much.”

 

…

 

With his bloodthirst sated, the young mage felt both his life and his mind were beginning to fall into a steady, controllable course. He was a calmer, more relaxed man than ever, and with Alastor’s loyalty by his side for the first time he felt like he belonged in Noxus.

Then the invitations started raining.

“What should I do, Alastor?” asked the lad.

“You should go as Vladimir from the Fields. He is the one they know and love, and who you have spent the last months becoming. But keep your eyes and ears open - there will be opportunities to grasp and secrets to learn. I trust the deceased Lily has taught you at least one way to acquire them.”

The mention of his victim's name did not offend or worry him anymore. She had been a necessary milestone on the way to his goals.

His murderous appetites, once sated, withdrew into a safe and controllable corner of his existence. The same way a starving man would dream of nothing but food, Vlad had been preoccupied with murder for far too long, despite his desire to suppress it. After joining the League his hunger for death was replaced by a more ravenous, unforgiving one- the lust for power. As he fought side by side with Noxus' elite, his gaze would shift ever upwards, until it was permanently fixed to the top of the fortress-city.

One way or another, he would find his way inside.

Alastor came with him to his first banquet, trying to serve as the training wheels for the lad who had spent the better half of a decade isolated from society. The day after, entertained by Vladimir's ineptitude, he started teaching the young man about social cues, the subtleties of class and rank, and the changes that had taken place in Noxus in the image's absence.

It was all difficult and incredibly complex, and the butler made sure to teach his ward of the price of failure. But after Dmitri's educational methods, everything was child's play. There was a certain undertone to every event, every interaction - it was the pursuit of power, knowledge and pride - and it all resonated within the young man, as if his very genes of a pure-bred Noxian noble responded to it.

Indeed, it had been his birthright to be among the ruling class of Noxus, and as he gained contacts and influence, there was one specific noble house which interested him above all. Very early on he learned that his mother had passed away, and the thoughts filled him with sadness and regret.

I wish she could see me now, he thought, I wish she had lived long enough to feel my vengeance.

It took, however, many balls, parties and banquets, many formal dinners and escapades with noble ladies, where Vlad would draw secrets from his partners in between moans of ecstasy, before he finally made it. He got invited to an event where his father was supposed to appear.

Alastor, who at this point was familiar with the boy's story, knew what was about to happen, but preferred not to interfere. He knew how hard Vladimir had worked and how far he'd made it through the Noxian elite, and decided he was to be allowed this one small prize.

"Refrain from melting any flesh, sir," he just said as he drove him to the event. " Gehrman du Aarenberg is an important man, who has done well to side with the military. While you are Swain's protégé, I doubt you can get away with the mutilation of a man like that."

Vladimir smiled and nodded as he brushed the odd strand of hair off his exquisite blue coat, fixed the ribbon binding the loose ponytail of ivory hair and stepped through the threshold of the ballroom.

He bowed and greeted each and every one of his acquaintances, making sure to make small talk with at least some of them. A few, especially the youngest, were somewhat intimidated by him and would buy his attention and company with pieces of semi-valuable information.  Vladimir would smile, summon a seductive glimmer in his eyes, and indulge them.

In a way, he was still a freak and an attraction to be displayed, but his height and noble features automatically drew people's respect. Curiously enough, his pale perfection was in great contrast to the olive-skinned, black-haired and scar-covered Noxian men. He found out many ladies would dream of a lover white as snow and pure as the fair men of Frejlord. He was there and happy to satisfy their needs.

He saw Gehrman, his father-brother surrounded by friends and family, cheerful enough to make Vlad's good mood dissolve. He was married now, to a woman of equally noble birth, and had brought his two sons to the event. They were the haemomancer’s nephews... or brothers, depending on how one looked at it.

Gehrman himself was a strikingly beautiful man, stern and grand as the ideals of a Noxus from the past, but also refined and seemingly spared by age. His skin was olive, hair- jet black, and eyes a deep and rich shade of blue which illuminated his image and distinguished him from the crowd.

"I do not believe I have had the pleasure," Vladimir bowed before his wife, introducing himself to her, the children, and finally to his father. The man looked somewhat taken aback by the sudden introduction of the pale man, his eyes flashing a forlorn recognition before returning to composure.

"Gehrman du Aarenberg, yourself?"

"Vladimir, Crimson Reaper, Haemomancer, and champion of the League of Legends," He made sure to accentuate on the lack of surname.

They both knew why, of course, and Vlad watched with delight as his father's smile turned more and more sour.

Name me, the unclaimed son thought, acknowledge the sins of your past, I am an Aarenberg head to toe, inside and out, the purest there has ever been. I will forgive you if you name me.

But no such thing happened. Their conversation continued on a predictable and boring course, and Vladimir soon gave up before the nobleman's self-control and mastery of talking a lot without saying anything. His heart was filled with bitter rage, so he stuck near the Aarenbergs long after the conversation had ended, making sure to always be within three meters of his father.

Eventually, people would start to notice. The two men were the same height, and by a strange coincidence, their outfits were somewhat similar. In fact, they were as if someone had pained the same portrait twice and forgotten to colour the second copy. Vladimir entertained the lady of Du Aarenberg, played with his nephews and even demonstrated some of his magic to them.

"You can call me uncle Vladimir," He smiled viciously at the intrigued boys. To them he was a fairy-tale come to life.

Eventually, as enough heads had turned and enough awkward whispers had been shared between the people, Vlad decided he had ruined his father's evening enough and left for a breath of fresh air in the back garden.

He sat there, in the cool embrace of the evening air, twitching with adrenaline and grim satisfaction. He was about to get up when he heard a series of footsteps approach him from behind. Whoever it was, they were agitated. He could feel it in their blood flow.

“You; Vladimir,” the voice of Gehrman. Vlad turned his head, looking the darker man in the eye.

“Gehrman. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Vlad’s voice was almost sing-song with satisfaction, he hadn’t needed to even get up.

“Don’t pretend, cut the bullshit.” The man’s disposition was suddenly rougher than inside the ballroom. “We both know who you are and what you want.”

Vlad’s brow raised, as if beckoning his father to continue, but he wasn’t. He wanted to wear the man down, break him. “Oh never mind that for now, I wanted to ask you something.” He paused. “Where is mother?”

Gehrman took a mental step back, but held his ground. His lip curled in disgust as he looked towards his son and brother sitting on the steps. “She’s dead. She died because of _you_.” The older Noxian made a growling noise before continuing. “Years after you’d left the city, a pack of dogs took it upon themselves to ‘cleanse’ our upper society of what your existence implied. We’re not obsessed with keeping our bloodlines pure, so you and your entire being were abominations. Of course, you were gone, so they took action against the next best thing; her. The servants found her strapped to her bed with multiple stab wounds in her chest and stomach.” Gehrman kept his gaze fixed upon his kin, glaring at him as though he were a monster in human skin.

Vlad felt a great upheaval of mixed emotions. On the one hand, he felt almost vilified, the ones who’d brought him into the world and subsequently ruined his life as best they could had suffered, at least partially. On the other hand, his mother was dead – the only person in the world he’d instinctively sought approval from. He wanted to be named, if only to be acknowledged as belonging somewhere and being closer to her. His gut twisted into all kinds of inhuman shapes, and his blood boiled.

“How…is that _my fault!?_ ” The anger took hold of him, luckily the guests inside couldn’t hear his rage. “I didn’t ask to be born into this world!” He seethed, now standing and facing his father down. “And you, how old were you? 15, 13, _11_!?”

“It’s all past now, boy. You were a mistake that deserved to be erased. I will not name you as one of my kin, not now, not ever.” He turned his chin up a bit. “You will leave now, and never set your eyes on me or my family again. I’ve worked hard to get the military and the rest of the nobility on the Aarenberg’s side, your existence will not put that in jeopardy.”

Through clenched teeth, Vladimir swore. "I would have forgiven you, had you agreed to name me. We could be friends, brothers. Why would you not welcome one of the most powerful mages in Noxus in your family?"

“I’ll say this one last time. Should you approach me or my family again, there will be consequences.” Gehrman cut him off, moving forward and hoisting Vlad by his collar.

Instinct gripped the haemomancer for but a second, but that second was all that was needed in order to compose the next set of events. Vlad’s arm swung upwards and his fist caught Gehrman on the side of the cheek. It wasn’t a great punch to be honest, but since it caught the older man by surprise he yelped in pain and dropped his son. His hand raised to brush against the wound and surveyed it. His eyes turned fierce as he glared at the pale man once again.

“You little shit.”

At this point his son was moments from plunging into a murderous rage. He had been attacked by the man he’d sought to negotiate with, but worse, the exchange had opened a grievous, bleeding wound in his honour, his newly acquired pride. Seeing the opportunity to hit where it hurt, Gehrman continued:  
“Go on, fight me. But don’t you dare use your gruesome sorceries, face me like a man for once.”

The brawl between the two was unrelenting and frightful. Each man would go as fast and as hard as they could, bloodying and battering the other in a bid to make them fall first.

Vlad’s style was wilder, more desperate and more ferocious. As often as he’d swing with a fist, he’d swipe with an open hand. His whole body would lunge with each thrown blow, his momentum unmatched, but his style unrefined. Gehrman in contrast was deliberate in his movements, his fists stayed raised to fend off face-ward attacks from his younger, and his strikes were straight and true. He did not feel as if he was fighting his kinsman, but rather trying to fend off and defeat a wild, rabid dog.

At first it seemed as though the fight was fairly even. In truth, the only thing keeping Vladimir in the fight was his desperation, and his fury. He wasn’t even channelling his magic, but he could feel each heartbeat send a quake-like throb through his network of veins. Gehrman might have been older, but he was at the prime age for a fighter, more formally trained in Noxian martial art, and hadn’t spent years of his life malnourished in the mountains. As the fight lasted longer, this disparity showed and soon, Vlad was losing.

By the end of the brawl, both of them had small rivulets of blood running down their skin and through their clothes. Bruises adorned each like badges and their heavy breath gave the fight a musical backdrop. They stared into each other’s eyes, wishing cruelty against them. Their hunched over forms were tell-tale of who had won and lost. Gehrman’s fists were still raised, despite his back arching in pain. Vlad had been forced to take a knee and place one of his hands on the ground to support himself, but he didn’t tear his eyes away from his kin.

“Had enough?” Gehrman spat.

“That’s quite enough, boys. No more.”

Their brawl was suddenly interrupted by a lonely clap in the night, and a voice to accompany it. The two men looked to the darkness of the gardens, and a curvaceous figure emerged from the gloom.

She was pretty, very pretty, and she knew it. She knew how to walk to draw all the attention in a room, and even when she was commanding she smiled in such a way that was hard to ignore. She was older than him, Vladimir could tell, but he couldn’t tell how much older at all. Her pale skin was unlike Vladimir’s pallid complexion; even in the night she was radiant, and her hair looked as if the shadows had draped themselves atop her.

It was Gehrman who spoke first. “I’m sorry miss, but this isn’t some mere quarrel. Forgive me for continuing.” He raised his fists again, betraying his dedication to Noxian-style pugilism.

Vlad simply narrowed his eyes and let out a long, slow exhale. Nothing happened for a few seconds, but then Gehrman’s eyes widened in horror. The streams of blood flowing down Vladimir’s brow stopped, then began to flow in reverse; back into his skin. His face and clothes soon were cleansed, and his wounds sealed themselves shut before his father’s eyes. He stood tall again and flexed his arm, showing off the writhing veins beneath the skin.

 _That’s…blood magic?_ Gehrman thought, fearful.

 _So that’s blood magic._ The woman though, intrigued.

Vladimir was captivated by the woman, and for these few moments he completely forgot about his furious, bloodied father and even the joke that was his childhood. The small demonstration of his art, which cost him more energy than it seemed at first, had precisely one purpose – to impress the radiant vision before him.

And it seemed to have succeeded, or at least so he inferred by the interest she was studying him with. As Gehrman snorted out a curse and left the gardens, Vlad rose to his feet, and, encouraged by her curious eyes, bowed gently and introduced himself:

“Vladimir, Crimson Reaper, Champion of the League of Legends, at your service, beautiful lady. I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure?”

“You can call me simply Evaine for now… Vladimir,” she said as she offered him her hand.

He bowed down and placed his lips on the porcelain skin, feeling a mild shock of electricity run through him as he felt the smooth, cold texture. Magic.

“I apologise if you found the accident distasteful or unfitting of your evening walk. Please, let me lead you back to the hall.”

She nodded courtly and followed him. The lights of the ballroom failed to pierce the shadows which engulfed her. Intrigued, the blood mage sought to infect her with his touch, to breach her impeccable surface. They were in the middle of the ballroom then, and a dance had just ended.

She stood, tall and splendidly perfect, and as Vladimir attempted to take hold of her bloodstream, a stronger shock ran through his body, one that almost made him lose his balance. He blinked, unbelieving, and measured her head to toe, looking for an explanation.

She did not even make a sound, and did not regard the event as if anything had happened. Her seductive, glossy lips pursed as if for a kiss… or he may have been imagining that.

Later that night he strode home, side by side with Alastor, completely forgotten about his accident with the Aarenbergs, but instead completely captivated by the strange lady.

“Alastor,” he started, “Have you, by any chance, heard of or met a sorceress, a mysterious weaver of shadows and illusions, who introduces herself as Evaine?”

His butler blinked for a moment, attempting to recall all the mages he had encountered. His memory almost served him, and Vlad caught the look of recollection in his eyes. To the lad’s surprise this look instantly melted, as if a mystical barrier stood in the way of him remembering.

“I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid I don’t.”  



	5. Black Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, folks. Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think!

Once relatively free from Evaine’s spell, Vladimir could sit down and calmly consider the consequences of the night he met her. Indeed, as the days went on, he found out that the events at the ball had had a greater influence over his life than he had anticipated.  
The first noticeable difference was that, despite the fact Gehrman refused to name him, a portion of the Noxian nobility was now fully aware that he was a disinherited Du Aarenberg. The ones which sided with his father and the military chose to dismiss the fact and tolerate his existence as he was key to Swain’s plans. The rest saw him as a tragic hero, a living proof that the pursuit of physical strength and the harsh, often dangerous ways young Noxians were raised since the military took over were not always the best approach. There were not many of those nobles left, but they did their best to spread Vladimir’s fame throughout the state. A bard, the likes of which were a relic in today’s Noxus, stopped him once at a banquet, requesting to hear his life’s story for the sake of a new ballad.

“Sir,” he had said,” your story inspires me beyond words. I swear, you are like the count of Mont de Kris of today’s Noxus. Please, indulge me just for a minute.”

The second, and the one Vladimir considered the biggest one, was, of course, Evaine. The moment he followed her to her carriage he knew she had set her eyes on him. Even someone as unperceptive as him could notice the quiet tone of power in her demeanour, could see that there was more to her than it met the eye. And the eye met a lot.

His infatuation with the sorceress was the most he had ever cared for another. It was born from fear, respect and curiosity, and it was enough to keep him searching for weeks. He asked about her at every event he went to, even visited the circle with the purpose of discovering which mages lurked within their ranks. Were he not too timid and terrified of Swain, we would have spoken to the Grand General himself in his search for the mysterious lady.

Everywhere, the answers were the same. People’s gazes went dim, and then they murmured ‘I don’t know’.

Truth was, Noxus was a labyrinth. The military had the upper hand, but they were never for a moment under the illusion that they could tame the depths of the ancient city, where all sorts of cults, secret societies, and forces older than civilisation lurked. Was Evaine even human, or was she the manifested soul of ancient Noxus, a succubus spirit sent to haunt Vladimir and remind him of the thirst that brought him back to the city?

His questions remained unanswered for a while, until one curiously terrifying morning.  
As a self-respecting noble, he had not woken up before the sun was high in the clear summer sky. He walked out of the bedroom, still trying to shake of the veil of sleep. To the lad’s surprise, breakfast was not ready as usual - in fact, the table lay empty, and the butler was nowhere to be seen. Vlad found Alastor just by the front door, the man frozen and glassy-eyed.

He tried to shake him out of it, to wake him up somehow, but the magic coursing through him was too strong, and the man was seemingly fine – just frozen in some sort of stasis, perfectly still and unmovable.

Vlad grabbed a red ornate dressing gown, purest Ionian silk, and quickly put it on over his pyjamas. He closed his eyes and summoned all the alertness he was capable of. Spreading the fingers of his right hand, a floating ball of crimson essence formed just inches from his fingertips. The smell of copper filled the room, the unsavoury aroma of battle, injury and death. But to Vlad it all felt like home.  
The Haemomancer felt the aura of a being, alive and pulsating, somewhere in his study. Wielding his loyal weapon with the threat and elegance of a seasoned battlemage, he strode upstairs.

He did not recognise the woman initially, so a torrent of infected blood erupted from the floating orb towards her. Outside of the League, this tactic was capable of incapacitating enemies quickly and efficiently, infecting them with a manufactured virus which ate through flesh not unlike acid.

Whoever the uninvited guest was, Vladimir had full right to slay them where they stood, and he would rejoice in it. A taste of real, irreversible murder was welcome variety in his diet.

The figure shimmered and shifted, splitting into two, then four, and then dissolving completely.

The lad’s nose wrinkled in predatory hunger. A crimson mist spread from the ball, quickly filling the room. Vlad remembered the first time he saw Dmitri cast this spell. In fact, it used to be how the old mage hunted for food for his apprentice – he would encircle himself with a vast crimson cloud, and as he strode through the forest, birds and woodland critters would drop dead from their branches.

Nothing in the room could survive the poisoned air, yet the mystical presence lingered.

“Show yourself!” yelled the mage.

A small vortex spun just before him, displacing the mist and clearing an area inside the room. A familiar form, long an object of his longing, floated just before him.  
_Evaine._

He tamed the cumulous storm of raw, deadly magic as fast as he could. Every particle was absorbed back into his skin before the vision materialised.

“Why did you withdraw your forces?” Evaine asked.

“I know you mean no harm.”

A pair of ethereal ribbons materialised out of thin air, their glow betraying the magical energy coursing through them, and they flung themselves towards the young man. They found his wrists and wrapped around them, incapacitating him and dragging him back, until his back was stuck to the wall.

“You could be mistaken…”

He attempted to do the logical thing and desolidify, leaving the restraints behind, but soon found out they gripped him in more than the physical sense.

“…but luckily, you are not.”

“What is this all about?” he demanded to know.

Evaine strode for a bit around the room before responding. He noticed she’d dug through his handwritten notes and inspected the medical textbooks he had been studying.

“I wanted to pay you a visit, see how you reacted to intruders, how you fought fellow mages.”

“And how did I do?” he smirked.

“An impressive display, don’t get me wrong. Any non-mage, or a below average mage would be dead in seconds. But you focused too much on putting on a good show. I guess it’s one of the vices of a League mage.”

He nodded.

“I guess you will never learn how to be properly efficient if your talent remains constrained in an artificial battlefield.”

“But it’s not – Swain has plans for me, tasks. He has been kind enough to fund my research and grant me access to some precious tomes… I would appreciate if you stay away from my notes, Evaine. You could be a Demacian spy, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Why have you written in these ‘precious’ books? You seem to have corrected something almost on every page.”

“Release me, then we’ll talk.”

The ribbons loosened and untwisted. The blood mage made a few steps towards the visitor, attempting to see which page his work was open on.

“Because they’re wrong. I have been given the right to experiment freely on slaves and prisoners, but I can rarely reconstruct the breadth of experimentation in these books. Problem is, they are sometimes just plain incorrect. Insufficient data or knowledge of the human body. And sometimes authors will lie or twist the facts to prove a point, which I absolutely can’t stand,” Vladimir explained, enjoying the sound of his own voice.

“How do you know you’re correct?”  
“Well, if I was wrong, my spells wouldn’t work, would they?”

A moment of silence, during which he realised he was spilling too much information in his efforts to impress her.

“And I rather enjoy reading. Used to do it quite a lot as a child. Now. Would you please indulge my curiosity?”

She smiled and crossed her arms.  
“You can have one question.”

It was too late when the lad realised he had been inappropriately witty in his response.

“What do I need to do to get you to answer more questions?”

“Ask your butler,” she laughed and her form shimmered, dissolving into thin air. Her presence left the room in a similar sudden fashion.

After he realised no amount of asking the empty room to wait and come back would work, Vlad eventually quit and made his way downstairs, finding a confused looking Alastor.

“It was a mage, Alastor. That Evaine I asked you about. She put you to sleep through magic. Don’t worry, she’s gone now.”

“Oh, sir, lest I forget: she left this,” the man said, handing his ward a small rectangular piece of paper.

It was black, glossy and abundantly perfumed. It had no writings and marks at all, and Vlad spent an hour trying to get it to react to any sort of magic. He gave up and left it on his desk, only to be surprised and terrified when the first ray of moonlight landed on it. It flared up and produced a set of ethereal, richly decorated letters.

An invitation.

“Sir,” later Alastor would say,” with all due respect, this might be a trap. Plenty of people in Noxus want you dead, and you might be walking straight into an ambush.”

But the lad trusted his gut instinct, and was hungry for the taste of real battle. Evaine had stirred his pride with her criticism of his efficiency, and he was dying to prove her wrong.

So he attended. It turned out to be a formal dinner, a celebration of the anniversary of a Noxan couple he had barely heard about. It was trivial, really, and the people were incredibly boring.

The only redeeming quality was Evaine’s presence.

“What are you doing here? Are these people part of your family?”

“I am the eldest daughter of a noble house. But at this time and political climate, my family prefers to lay even lower than that. They do love your story though, vengeful revenant,” she laughed.

They talked and danced, Vlad exerting the most subtlety he was capable of to draw as much information from the woman as he could, but she was far better than him in this ancient art.

…

Their final date was when all the revelations came. He had to prepare for the event at a short notice, but it was imperative that Evaine spoke to him. This was to be their final meeting, he learned from the letter. The grandeur of the remote palace he arrived at was beyond anything he had ever seen. The magic transforming all the vegetation into stone and glass aside, the structure itself was spacious enough to accommodate a small town.

Evaine led him to the topmost floor, where the tiles were set to represent a chessboard. A platform at the top of the building served as a ballroom in warmer weather, but now it was empty, overlooking the gardens in their lamp-lit beauty. A pair of marble trees grew seemingly from the floor, an endless rain of white sparks falling from their branches, dissolving inches from any surface.

“I never asked, Vladimir: How old are you?”

“I recently turned twenty. Does it matter?”

“Not at all. But I have to say, I thought you were older.”

He smiled and nodded, taking it as a compliment.

“You are but a child, and already you have had to spill so much blood and make such tough choices.”

“Choices? Not really,” he said. “All my life I have been like a cornered animal, running, fearing, following the path of least resistance.”

“Surely you couldn’t have gotten this far only by doing that?”

“On the contrary, it’s what you learn to do.” He stepped towards her, allowing himself to sit next to her on the thick stone railing. “With a background like mine, you either struggle for the best, or life beats you into a pulp in the mud. I can never hope to be in the middle.“

It was true. Being born an outcast and a freak, the only way he could survive was by being the right combination of convenient to his superiors and terrifying to the ones below him.

“Looking back at my life, I cannot remember a single moment when I exercised my free will. It was all pride, passions, and the will to survive. And I took it all and cast it into the fire of my ambition.”

“You have to choose your alliances soon though. How is your research for Swain going?”

“Not great,” he shook his head. “I feel that what I am attempting cannot be accomplished by blood magic alone. There is… a further spiritual link to be established with the deceased, and I have little grasp on that.”

“Necromancy, perhaps?” she suggested, smiling, as if she knew something, like she always did.

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “I know precious little of other schools of magic. I’ve been meaning to correct that, especially with respect to the dark arts.”

“You will get your chance, soon enough.”

A flicker of mystery, intrigue, secrets. It was the very essence of Evaine, woven within her very shine. She was like a glimmering black butterfly, her robes flowing like shadows into the darkness.

“Listen, being Swain’s little student is not going to work out for you, not for long at least.”

“Are you suggesting I betray him?”

“Not at all. But you need to strengthen your ties with him, so that he is willing to give you further rights, access to greater knowledge.”

He was all ears.  
“This” she gestured towards the gardens, the lights of the ball. The setting sun of Noxian nobility, forced into its twilight by the iron fist of the military, still blinded the onlookers with its beauty.” This won’t last. They will hunt down the refined, spoiled and corrupt nobles one by one, then they’ll rob them of their property for the sake of a stronger, more united Noxus, with an unbeatable army. These nobles love you, sure. But they know their end is coming, and if you rely on them for support, you won’t get it.”

“So should I start licking the military boot then, as soon as I can?”

It was obvious sarcasm. Two men who shared a very special and mutual hatred towards Vlad ranked very highly in the Noxian army – Gehrman and Darius, and each wanted him dead and destroyed.

“The military might be Swain’s right hand, but he has another hand, and countless wings.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you much. Although I am certain that you will go through with it all, the small chance that you will quit necessitates secrecy. But…” she started, and dug into the folds of her dress.

She pulled out a small metal object, a metal rose with black hematite petals. The craftsmanship was exquisite and its surface glistened with unknown magic. She pulled Vlad closer, the lad twitching with surprise at the electricity of her touch, and weaved the rose into his hair. Her fingers on his head and cheek send unspeakable shivers down his spine.  
“What is this?”

“It’s a token. Take an evening walk in lower Noxus, and bring this in your pocket. Eventually you will become lost, but don’t be afraid, simply go straight ahead and you will arrive at the right place. Be ready for some tests, and to swear some very important oaths. Breaking them may mean your death. “

Her manicured fingers found his hand, and she held it, her deathly cold only serving to raise his excitement.

“Evaine, what is this about? Why now, why me?”

“It’s complicated… a state secret, if you will.” She hesitated before continuing. ”Our leader will soon step down, and she will announce her successor. It has not been confirmed, but I have the intuition it might be me. You’d think there’s nothing wrong with that, but becoming the Matron means more than a new title. It means a new identity, a new history, a new personality even.”

He looked and her, inspecting the crack of vulnerability appearing in her demeanour.

“I might not remember my life. I might not remember you, I have no idea what my new self will be like. So in a way, I might never see you again, Crimson Reaper. So I want you to have this black rose.”

He understood now. He reached out, his hand on her waist both a soothing gesture and an invitation. She accepted, pulling him closer. Their lips became interwoven for the first time, the taste more intoxicating to him than the strongest liquor.

When their kiss broke, they paused for a second to admire each other. The rain of light falling from the marble trees had turned red and each spark cast the most enticing shadows on Vladimir’s face, illuminating the crimson of his irises and creating mystical highlights in his hair. Evaine’s shadow robes had shifted, encircling him, wrapping around him, drawing him further towards her.

He obliged, sinking deep into the heart of Noxus, accepting this new challenge.

Who knew where it would lead him?


End file.
